


Played in a Good Match

by sugarboat



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon typical veiled threats, Gen, Humor, Team Bonding, briefly implied Elias/Jon, briefly implied Peter/Martin, but between two people
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-25
Updated: 2018-11-25
Packaged: 2019-08-29 01:10:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16734162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sugarboat/pseuds/sugarboat
Summary: This isn't the first time the Eye and the Lonely have worked together, as Peter demonstrates to Jon.





	Played in a Good Match

There’s nothing inherently different about the door to Elias’ office. Same polished brass handle and dark, thick wood that muffles sound. It hasn’t always been so foreboding of a sight, but Jon supposes that experience has a way of making omens from the most innocuous of objects. The lights aren’t unnaturally dim either, and the hall beyond the entrance room of the office still bustles with the clatter of people’s shoes.

The only inherent difference is what’s waiting beyond the threshold. _Who_ is waiting beyond it. Elias isn’t the one on the other side any longer. It isn’t something Jon had really dared to hope he would have to adjust to. Even while he had tried to believe in Martin’s – and Melanie’s – plan, a small, detestable part of himself hadn’t truly believed it would work. It would invite too much possibility for disappointment, he’d thought. He’d told himself. He tells himself.

Is there a part of him that hadn’t wanted it to work? Ruthlessly suppressed, rearing its unwanted head in the form of sharp gnawing within his chest as he raises his hand to knock on Peter Lukas’ door. Reminding himself that anything he’d felt towards Elias was the result of his direct machinations, or the heavy pull of the Eye dragging them both towards a dark center. It wasn’t real. 

Jon pushes the door open at Peter’s beckoning call. Unnerved as much at the man lounging behind Elias’ great, wide desk as at the redecoration efforts which must have occurred since the last time he’d been here. Peter has certainly made himself at home. A shelf along the wall which used to hold old, fragile books is now filled with the breadth of a model ship, and that's the least offensive of the changes.

“Close the door, will you?” Peter asks him. Not actually a question, or a request, but Jon obliges all the same. “You really have to make a racket to be heard through that thing, huh? Think it came that way? Or was that Elias’ doing? Do you think he had some reason he’d want such stringent… privacy?” 

The door shuts, heavy into its frame. It’s in his mind. The feeling of sudden, rushing silence pressing in against his eardrums. His hand is still on the doorknob, clammy against cold metal, and he doesn’t know the answer. He thinks about Elias’ voice, speaking to Beholding but telling him, specifically, what had happened to the friends of those who served the Eye. There had been no shortage of monsters in the Institute’s long heritage. 

“I don’t have any idea,” Jon says as he turns.

Peter’s watching him, and the weight of his attention so riveted in place is palpable and thick, despite the friendly expression. 

“Not even a guess? Ah, I suppose you aren’t used to being the one answering questions,” Peter says. “Come on, come in.” 

“No, I-I suppose not,” Jon agrees. He finds himself cataloguing the changes in the room, miscellaneous shelving liners and expensive looking- well, he doesn’t want to say statues, but aren’t they? Somehow it’s both more and less ostentatious than Elias’ relic collection used to be. “I might be a bit out of practice.”

“Nothing some friendly chit chat can’t rectify, huh?” 

Peter’s eyes are still on him. Jon’s arm is still sore and bruised from where an IV line had been placed. There’s no chair in front of Elias’ desk, he can’t help but to notice. And there’s an extra chair around the other side of it. To Peter’s right, close enough and angled so that the edge of one armrest is in contact with one of Peter’s. 

“Saw you eying the ketch rig up there. On the shelf,” Peter comments. Jon’s come to a stop before him, standing roughly where he figures a chair rightly should be. There are even indents in the thick, green rug where one had sat before. 

“The-the boat?”

“Sure. Did you like it? There’s something majestic about them, isn’t there?”

It’s a boat. “It’s certainly something.” 

“It isn’t just a model you know,” Peter says, and he laughs when Jon’s eyes snap back to the… ketch rig in question. “Well, it is just a model. But not of any random ship. It’s one of ours. I can show it to you sometime, if you like.”

“I’m sure that won’t be necessary,” Jon says. He’s still staring at the miniature with no small amount of suspicion.

“Not everything in life needs to be about necessity, Archivist.” 

It’s not that Jon disagrees with him. It’s just that it feels like it’s been so, so long since he’s been able to live his life in any other way. He thinks- he wasn’t always like this. Or he wants to think that. 

“Besides,” Peter says, cutting into the abhorrent depression of his thoughts, “Martin’s already seen it. I would have thought the concept of new information would have you salivating.” 

That definitely gets Jon’s attention. “Martin? Martin’s seen your- your boat?”

“It’s called a ketch, Jon.” 

“Your ketch, then,” Jon spits. 

“Well, it’s not specifically mine-”

“That really isn’t the point.”

“-But yes.” Peter’s smile is more like a leer, sharp and satisfied. “I’ve taken him once or twice. Gotta get out of these dusty Archives sometime, don’t you agree?”

Jon slams his hands down flat on the desk, leaning into the motion. “Stay away from him. From all of them.” 

“Guess it isn’t just Elias that’s overprotective,” Peter says. “Not exactly a good trait for an Archivist, but I suppose that’s none of my business.”

“No, it isn’t.” 

“Except, of course, that I’m technically your boss now.” His gaze becomes colder, a piercing thing. Relaxed into his chair with his head inclined to study Jon. “But that’s all it is – a technicality. I’m sure Elias still knows best concerning religious matters, such as they are.” 

Jon feels his jaw tighten. His hands draw into fists as he pulls away from the desk and crosses his arms over his chest. “If Elias always knew best, I assume he would still have his job.” 

Peter gives a short bark of laughter at that. “Ah, there’s that attitude I’ve heard so much about. Was beginning to think being _everything but braindead_ had had some sort of lasting effect.” 

“Well- it didn’t.” It did. Jon unclenches the fingers of his right and, extends them, feeling pins and needles, flesh strangely sluggish to respond. The physical part’s not even the worst of it. 

Peter watches him like he knows anyway. “Good to hear. Now, come on, I didn’t call you in here without reason. I know how busy you – and your assistants – like to keep.” 

“What do you want?” 

“Right now? For you to come over here, to this seat I’ve so thoughtfully prepared for you. Surely you’ve noticed I have an excess?” 

“I noticed,” Jon says flatly.

There’s something astoundingly unimpressive – and grating – about the way Peter pats the seat next to him. Pats it and then rubs it, like he’s tempting some house pet over to his lap. 

“Come on, Archivist. I have something to show you, and you’re not going to be able to see it from over there.” 

Jon very pointedly does not move. But he does want to believe that Peter’s telling him the truth. That his time isn’t being wasted, that Peter Lukas might even respect him, in spite of the way his fingers linger as he finally slides his hand off the seat beside him. It all feels rather hopelessly optimistic for his taste. 

“And once you’ve shown me this – whatever it is – I can go back to the Archives?” 

“Of course! Grant me this little indulgence, Jon, and I’ll set you free to archiving to your monstrous heart’s content.” 

“I am not a monster,” Jon says, but it’s half-hearted at best, and as he does so he’s moving around the side of the desk, to the chair Peter’s arranged for him.

“My mistake, Archivist. No offense intended.” 

He tries not to make what he’s doing too obvious as he grabs the farthest armrest, intending to seat himself and put some extra distance between the two. Peter casually wraps his hand around the one next to his own, and only smiles at the sharp tug of Jon trying to jerk his grip free. With a deep sigh, Jon sits down, wincing when their knees knock together and pulling his leg back sharply. 

“Well?” Jon demands. “What did you want to show me?” 

“All in good time,” Peter says. “You’ve been having some doubts, haven’t you?” 

At that, Jon can’t help himself – he laughs, quiet and bitter. “That’s a bit of an understatement.” 

“Yes. Yes, Elias has mentioned it’s been a challenging year, for you and the Institute both. I’m sure you’ve heard it before, but your progress has been quite remarkable. I was very impressed when you managed to stop the Unknowing. Had been considering it a lost cause, really.” 

To his credit, Peter isn’t making this as horrifically awkward as it could be. He’s leaning his weight against the side of his chair that isn’t touching Jon’s, at least, even while his gaze hasn’t moved from studying the Archivist and the proximity alone is enough to make Jon uncomfortable. Never mind what Peter is actually saying.

“Nice to hear another vote of confidence,” Jon says snidely, mostly so he doesn’t have to focus on any of the other pieces of Peter’s statement.

“I’m certainly confident in your abilities now. Elias saw the potential in you, Jon, and I’m starting to agree with him.” 

Jon stares at him for a moment. A long moment. Unsure what, if anything, to make of all this. In the end he doesn’t say anything, and Peter looks far too self-satisfied when he continues himself.

“Which is why it’s important to me that you feel comfortable with us working together.” 

“You really expect me to believe that you called me in here for, what? A bonding session?” 

“I suppose you’ll have to decide for yourself what you believe. But yes, you could call it that.” 

“And you care that I’m- comfortable?” It probably says something wretched about his life that this is most unbelievable part of it all. 

“On a personal level? Not really.” It’s rather satisfying to watch Peter blink rapidly, as if he hadn’t quite known he was going to say that. “But in a professional capacity, I want you to understand that you and I don’t need to be at odds.”

“Right,” Jon says. “Well I suppose you’ll just have to forgive me if I think you’re-”

“Full of shit?” Peter interrupts. 

“…Something like that, yes.” Jon finds himself mirroring the jagged smile Peter gives him. 

“Just allow me the opportunity to prove you wrong, Archivist. That’s all I’m asking.” 

“I doubt I have much of an option in that either way.” 

“No, not much,” Peter says. And then he sits upright suddenly, clapping his hands on his thighs. Jon jerks slightly back. “Well! Let’s get on with it then, shall we?”

“All right?” 

"Excellent." Peter reaches to his desk, opening one of the top drawers and pulling free what looks to be a small remote. It’s thin and flat, with too few buttons, and then he pulls a more normal looking television remote out as well. Jon frowns at him. 

Peter presses a button on the slim remote and Jon hears a whirring sound. It’s hard to localize at first, but he catches sight of panels on the wall across from Peter’s desk sliding open, revealing a flat screen television and-

“You can’t be serious.” 

“I’m always serious, Jon.” 

Well, that’s a lie, and not what he meant anyway. “This is- wildly inappropriate.” 

“Wildly?”

“A complete misuse of Institute funding.”

“Probably true.”

“You realize this is some poor donor’s money you’ve wasted?” 

“Who’s to say this setup wasn’t Elias’?” There’s a beat, where Jon actually considers the possibility, before, “It isn’t, of course, but what if it was?”

“Stop. Just- stop.” 

“It’s cute, really. Didn’t think you were the type to care about funding and the responsible distribution of such, but you needn’t worry your little Archivist head over it. That’s for us bigwigs to take care of, right?” Jon rolls his eyes. “Besides, I’m the donor in question, remember?” 

“That doesn’t excuse flagrant abuse of the Institute’s-”

“All right, all right, write a formal complaint, will you? This is what I wanted to show you.”

“You wanted to show me your television,” Jon says. “Well, I’m suitably impressed, I assure you, so if that was all-”

“Obviously I’m going to show you something on it, Jon,” Peter says. Neither of them sound quite as combative as Jon feels is warranted. Peter actually sounds like he’s enjoying this conversation somehow. “It’s some footage I think you will find uniquely interesting.” 

There’s the cold, seeping dread Jon is better acquainted with. _Uniquely interesting_. He swallows hard around something in his throat. “Why- why do you think that?” 

“A few reasons,” Peter says. “It’s something of a collaborative effort, you see. Between my own god and yours. Not technically correct, but there’s no need for hair splitting.” 

“A collaborative- between Beholding and the Lonely?” Jon asks.

“Yes. You see, Jon, I can tell, you’re wondering how this is going to work; you probably think I’m going to do something awful and nefarious to all of you. Which I might, but it won’t be because of so small a thing as my serving something other than you yourself do.” 

"That's not really that comforting."

“Beholding and the Lonely, as you call it,” Peter continues, “They have a rather interesting area of overlap. We’ve worked together in the past, and quite successfully at that.” 

That actually does catch Jon’s interest. He doesn’t even find himself leaning away when Peter brings himself closer, bending almost conspiratorially towards Jon. 

“Do you want to see it?” Peter asks him, voice quiet and low, sending shivers down Jon’s spine. His tone conjures images of the worst two entities working together could produce. 

Does he want to see it? Whatever horror impossible nightmares combining themselves could craft, what the intersection of deep-rooted, basilar fears would spawn.

Was there ever any question at all? Of course he does.

“Show me,” Jon says, and steeling himself, turns towards the television. A black, blank slate, wherein he can see their own vague reflections. 

“It would be my pleasure.” 

Peter clicks a button. And then spends a few minutes fumbling through various menus, and at one point has Jon shut his eyes, so as not to ruin the surprise. By the time everything is prepared anticipation has wound tight and trembling in his gut, and he doesn’t even remember to be offended when Peter places a hand on his wrist and asks if he’s ready.

Jon nods. “I’m ready, Peter.”

The image on the screen pans over a manor, backlit with numerous lights against a dark, star filled sky. Multiple balconies and a long, sloping drive are all illuminated, as is what appears to be a large pool in the background. All of the lights inside the building seem to be lit, the windows pouring out diffuse blooms of softly welcoming yellow. Jon frowns, studying the scene for any obvious deformities, any clues as to what is going to happen. 

A voice comes through the speakers, almost sinister as it proclaims: “On the last season of _The Bachelor_.”

“What,” Jon says. It isn’t even a question. It couldn’t be, as he stares silently at the flashing images of a blonde woman and a man supposedly – according to the shoddy voiceover work – falling deeply and passionately in love. 

“I told you, it’s our greatest collaborative effort,” Peter says. Gleefully. He’s saying it with absolute glee. 

“I- What?” 

“I’m ready to move forward,” the woman on the television says. “And I’m ready to meet someone, and put them first, above all things.”

“You have to admit, Archivist, it’s pretty brilliant if I do say so myself.” 

“Are you- you’re joking. This is a joke.” 

“It really isn’t.” 

“I’m back!” Ali the Bachelorette adds, “And I’m ready to find love.” 

Jon turns to Peter, doing his best to tune out the entirety of the travesty that’s happening on screen. It’s difficult when he hears her say she quit her _job_ and sold her _apartment_ to be on this show.

“Good lord.”

“I think you’re starting to understand,” Peter says. 

“You can’t expect me to-”

“We’re watching the whole thing, Archivist.” Even as he says this, Peter pulls out two short glasses, setting them on the desktop before them. He reaches into the bottom desk drawer and pulls out a bottle of whiskey, and Jon doesn’t have the strength to reprimand him. 

“Why are they showing a preview of the rest of the show?” Jon asks helplessly. Peter’s hand is a strangely comforting weight as he squeezes Jon’s shoulder.

“They just do.” He pours perhaps more than two fingers into each glass. Jon takes the one offered to him without thought. “Cheers, Archivist.”

Peter throws back the entire thing, and Jon follows suit as he hears the aspiring playwright on the television say he’s just moved back home with his parents.


End file.
